


Blind Deductions

by masterofall14



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Flirting, Blind Character, Blind Sherlock, Confused Sherlock, First Time, Fluff, Humor, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pining, Pining John Watson, Sexual Content, relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-03-26 05:50:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3839440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masterofall14/pseuds/masterofall14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, a genius and blind. John believed he may have just had something happen in his civilian life.</p><p>(Previously titled "Learning London")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When John followed Mike to Barts in the hope of finding a flatmate who'd accept his PTSD and psychosomatic limp, it was as if the stars had aligned for this very moment.  
His eyes fell on Sherlock Holmes.

The man was standing next to a seated woman, who was bent over a microscope. He was leaning on the table, using his hips and hands to maintain his balance and was staring dead ahead, listening to the girl's quiet murmurs, as she was obviously relaying everything she could see. He wasn't physically taking notes and his gaze seemed a little distant. His head turned slightly as they entered the room, John pointing out how different it was. The girl lifted her head and gave a small smile, slight confusion flitted across her face at John's appearance, but she didn't dwell on it.

The man greeted them with a deep baritone voice. “Mike.”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock. Somehow the name suited him completely. Complimented him. His face had strange angles, which made him all the more appealing to look at, John thought. Darl curls and skinny frame; he was obviously someone who had girls throwing themselves at him from left and right.

Sherlock turned his head back in John's direction. “Who's your friend?” He asked, all the while staring over John's shoulder at the wall. Typical. The man wouldn't even look at him.

Clearing his throat, John shuffled his feet and lent on his stick. He was Captain John Watson, god damn it. He wouldn't let himself be intimidated by other people's behavior towards him. Squaring his shoulders, he raised his glanced from where it had dropped to the floor and glared into Sherlock's eyes.

Mike beat him to it. “This is John Watson, we...”

The other man cut him off. “You knew each other at university. You brought him here because I told you that I was looking for a flatmate. You were gone for two hours, so you bumped into each other, had coffee going by the smell of your breath. You weren't brilliantly close, because you, Mike, were not eager to tell me his name; so in the same class at University, not overly friendly. That tells me you most likely sat on a bench outside; after all discussing things over a table with someone you barely recognize would result in awkwardness for both of you.” A sly smile passed over his face. “Am I right?”

John could only gape. The speed at which Sherlock spoke was enough to make anyone double take, but the confidence with which he conversed and the content... How could he possibly know all of this?

Glancing at Mike, he was surprised to see the other man smiling smugly at him, as if he had known Sherlock would astound him this way. It was obviously an everyday occurrence, since everyone else was calm.

He cleared his throat for a second time in an attempt to regain some leverage on this battlefield of wits with this smart man. Sherlock's stare unnerved him. He never looked at anyone directly, he merely...

John wanted to kick himself for being so slow. Heck, he would have there and then, if it hadn't been for the limp. He was a doctor. How could he not have noticed. He was a _doctor_. He had treated people suffering from facial injuries and blindness in Afghanistan.

His suspicions were confirmed, when the man in question picked up a box containing syringes and brushed his fingers over the braille for confirmation.

So a genius and blind. John believed he may have just had something happen in his civilian life.

The ensuing silence lasted for a moment before Sherlock suddenly requested Mike's phone. When the latter denied having it on him, John hurried to offer his own. He had a burning desire to reach this amazing man's expectations. As he tugged it out of his jacket pocket, Sherlock walked over to him. Reaching out rather hesitantly, he placed his hand on John's shoulder, right above the bullet wound and squeezed. John couldn't help hissing at the nip of pain that ran down his left arm.

Sherlock withdrew his hand, looking only slightly apologetic. “Bullet wound,” he stated rather than questioned. John felt unnerved. How could he tell?

“Do you mind?” Sherlock's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Muttering an apology, he held out his phone, when Sherlock suddenly placed large, elegant hands on either side of his face. He flinched once more at the contact.  
Gentle fingers ran across the lines in his face, brushed every inch as though reading him like braille, before humming as though satisfied with what he had learned.

“Lots of lines from trauma and sun, so late thirties or early forties. Hair cut regularly, military, most likely grey or getting there. Your limp is psychosomatic because you're leaning the wrong way, as if you're not always aware of it. This I can tell from the position of your shoulders and this usually occurs in people readjusting to life. So, you're a soldier and from your age and behavior I would say captain. Bullet wound, tremors in the left hand and yet...” He clasped John's clammy hand between his own. “It's gone now. Your psychiatrist is wrong. You need danger. Fire her.”

Plucking the phone from John's immobile hand, he felt the writing engraved on the cover. Not having finished impressing the newcomer, he didn't notice how quiet the room had become.

“Your brother left his wife Clara, because he kept the phone before passing it onto you; you're not close, but he's worried, wants you to stay in touch. Scratches on the charging end, indicate he's an alcoholic. Never see a drunk's phone without them, and they most certainly didn't come from you.” His phone was thrust back into his hands. “An army doctor.” The unseeing eyes were confident. “I can only assume that I'm right.”

John couldn't answer.

Sherlock pulled on his coat, picked up the riding crop lying on the table. “Thank you for getting this Molly.” he said, speaking to the only woman in the room. “Are you coming John?”

The smaller man blinked rapidly, to hide his confusion. Not that it worked. “I'm sorry, where are we going?”

“To my flat. The owner, Mrs. Hudson will love you, don't worry.”

“We've only just met. I don't even know your full name.” John replied incredulously.

“Sherlock Holmes. We've already established that I know everything about you. And you will follow me. You can't help yourself.” He left the room with grace and ease.

John shook his head, took one look at Mike's smug face and made his decision. Cursing his fascination under his breath, he darted after Sherlock.

888

A fifteen minute cab ride and an explanation that Harry was short for Harriet later, John found himself in a stuffy, messy apartment, without a visible seating area in sight. Glaring at the naive Sherlock, he cleared a space on the plushy looking armchair and sat himself down, stretching his sore leg and confirming that yes, the armchair was “plushy”.

Sherlock cleared a few spaces, knowing where everything was amongst this disaster of a lounge. John did not wish to impose by trying to help him, for he felt it would not be appreciated. So when Sherlock froze mid-motion and darted towards the window, leaping over stacks of books with a maniacal grin on his face, John's heart thudded in excitement.

Mrs. Hudson rushed in at that moment, demanding to know what Sherlock had done this time round to upset Scotland Yard once more. She was gently shoved aside by a detective, who resembled John with his keen eyes and graying hair. He took no notice of the smaller man as he requested Sherlock's attention. Not that the man hadn't been quivering in delight for the past minute.

“There's been another murder.” The glee in his voice sent an unnoticeable shiver down John's spine. “But this one's different or you wouldn't have come. What's happened?”

“There's a suicide note. I'd appreciate it if you could come down to take a look. Er, I meant...”

“I know what you meant. I'll follow you in a taxi.” The detective nodded gratefully, probably more to himself and left.

Informing his lodger that he was skipping tea, he departed without a second thought for John. The latter sat back and convinced the landlady for some tea and biscuits, enjoying their playful banter.

Years in the army had taught him to be wary and to know when he was being watched. It was this gut instinct that made him turn his head towards the doorway, to find Sherlock facing him, his eyes set on John's waist.

“You're a doctor.” he said, adjusting his scarf around his neck. “An army doctor.”

The mere mention of his military career had John standing and drawing himself to full height, mainly out of nervousness and self-defense.

“You've seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths.” He stalked towards John as he spoke, as one would stalk their prey.

“Yes, yes, far too much.” He tried pushing back the memories, not wanting more memories that night. But he couldn't deny that the more he remembered, the more lonely and homesick he felt. This made no sense at all. Or at least, that's what he tried to convince himself. “Enough for a lifetime.”

By now, he and Sherlock were inches apart and he swallowed at their sudden closeness. And then Sherlock's eyes met his own, taking his breath away, reading his secrets and taking a peek at his soul. The blue was intense and John was almost convinced Sherlock could see him.

Sherlock lent in closer, lowering his voice as though sharing forbidden knowledge. John was internally shivering in excitement.

“Want to see some more?”

“Oh, _god_ yes.”

888

Later that evening, after having been left behind at a crime scene and kidnapped by some guy believing he had Sherlock's best interests in mind and who'd successfully deduced him as pompously as the man he'd met earlier that afternoon, John found himself back in the flat, discussing Consulting detectives with Sherlock, who was high on nicotine.

“Not to seem rude, but asides from the sergeants at the crime scene...” He noted Sherlock's raised eyebrows. “Well okay, only Lestrade seemed to accept that your facts were true.”

“Your point?” As it turned out, Sherlock did not like having meaningless conversations, John learned quickly.

“Look, I know how ignorant people can be and I'm surprised that they trust you even though you're blind.” Get to the point. Sherlock hates unfinished sentences.

“I trained for years, John, years to perfect my hearing, all my senses and my knowledge of every route in London. I only started working with Lestrade two years ago. It's not always easy, because they're all a bunch of idiots. My blindness means that I miss a lot of important details, and when no one is willing to help me, then of course they never catch their killer . Bunch of morons the lot of them. Thank god you were there tonight, or I never would have realized that the killer had taken her suitcase. Has he replied yet?”

John glanced at the phone nervously. “Can't believe I sent a text to a serial killer.”

A sigh. “Believe it, John.”

John re-ran the conversation through his head. “So when you said that you understood the killer had taken her suitcase, was that your way of thanking me?”

“What? Of course not, it was me, all me.” John discovered that Sherlock isn't a brilliant liar. Especially when it concerns his ego. So he smiled to himself, satisfied and glad no one could see it.

“Stop smiling, John. Satisfaction doesn't suit you.”

“What? How...”

“You breathe heavily through your nose when you're happy. It's incredibly irritating.”

Sherlock pondered the case and John pouted. It was a few minutes before the detective spoke up again. “Yes.”

“Hmm?”

“That was my way of thanking you. And don't think it will happen again.”

“So, does that mean you need me for more cases?”

Sherlock growled, infuriated. “Only if you want to stay. Which we'll find out in about an hour's time.”

Shaking his head, John smiled. Perhaps he could live with this madman. He still needed to be sure though.

Sherlock sat up. “Hungry? I know a great restaurant. You'll have to watch out for any suspicious activities. You need to be my eyes, so we can catch this killer.”

Smirking again and ignoring Sherlock's bemused face, they left the flat together. Sherlock needed him, and vice versa. He would start his blog tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every time, John is interrupted. Until he isn't. Sherlock certainly seems to appreciate it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

John is in love with Sherlock.

 

John is in love with Sherlock and wants to show him just how much.

 

John is in love with Sherlock and wants to show him just how much, but can’t because the man in question is blind. Therefore, John is, in his own opinion, pretty much screwed. When attracted to someone, John usually smiles, makes doe eyes and dresses to impress. But Sherlock can’t see any of this without having to physically read him like braille. Because the smartest man in London literally cannot see what is right in front of him. John is considering belting out songs of admiration for Sherlock’s cheekbones and writing poems about his eyes, but that will most likely result in a complete loss of masculinity, let alone dignity. So that’s a no-no. Captain John Watson will simply have to come up with a better plan.

 

888

 

The idea hits him in the face, almost shattering his ego and making him blush at his own stupidity. He should have seen it coming, because he’d been observing Sherlock all morning.

 

At breakfast, watching Sherlock feel his way around the kitchen and make himself and John a cup of tea. John congratulates himself on his foresight of removing the eyeballs from the teacups that Sherlock is currently putting teabags in. The way his hands run along the counters, down the fridge, across the pages of the books he loves to read, almost as if he’s smoothing creases out of the different surfaces. His hands are those of an artist’s and John loves admiring his fingers as they pluck the cords on his violin and the way he knows what he’s touching thanks to the pads of his fingers. He wonders what Sherlock’s face would look like if he were to suck on those long digits. Would his mouth fall open? Would he mutter nonsense and babble about how much he loves John? Would he…?

And that’s when it hits him. If he can’t make Sherlock see, then he will just have to make him _feel._

888

 

John spies on the gorgeous git for the rest of the day. He becomes unnaturally jealous when Sherlock strokes the corpse of a victim like a lover when he’s trying to the determine the cause of death, while Molly relays everything she can see to him. All these feelings are very embarrassing and he’s certain Sherlock knows something is wrong, because Sherlock _always_ knows. It’s like a sixth sense or something. He can always read people by their breathing patterns or whatnot. It was how he knew when John smiled their first day together, how he knows when John scowls at Sally when she yells “Freak!” at crime scenes, the small intakes of breath people take when they lie, etc. To put it quite clearly, if Sherlock knows all of this, then he must be aware of John’s feelings. He’s too smart for this to have passed unnoticed. Maybe he’s uncomfortable about it and has therefore decided against bringing up the subject altogether. But John can’t live in denial for the rest of his life, so Sherlock will either have to love him or boot him out of Baker street.

 

But John doesn’t want to lose what he has already has with Sherlock. Their friendship is too important to him. But he cannot pretend forever either. He’s just going to have to be brave and say it.

Sometimes in life, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. And in this case, a man’s got to grow a pair and speak up before he dies prematurely of spontaneous combustion.

 

Sherlock is sat in the kitchen burning… something. John walks in beaming and being sure to have a spring in his step.

“Sherlock,” he announces, “We should probably have sex. For my own health and safety, if not for yours.”

Sherlock raises his head. Except it’s not Sherlock, but Mycroft.

John wakes up shrieking and runs for the shower. That’s plan A down the toilet.

 

**Plan B: Be less direct and initiate touches**.

After a terrible night’s sleep, John is making tea. Sherlock finally ventures out of his room at the sound of John stirring milk into the beverage. He pads into the kitchen and turns his head towards John’s general direction.

 

“Bad night?” he asks.

 

John chokes on oxygen.

 

Sherlock seemingly ignores this and makes his way over to his chair before plopping down unceremoniously. John recovers and brings his cup over to him. As usual, Sherlock reaches out with both hands so that he can cradle the mug. Not as usual, John grasps Sherlock’s right hand in his left and guides it to the handle of the mug and allows his fingers to linger on Sherlock’s wrist before pulling away, trying not to express any emotion that Sherlock might hear, leaving the poor man to blink his blind eyes owlishly at John’s armchair. John snickers inwardly at Sherlock’s reaction and waits to see what happens. The smile that graces Sherlock’s lips only lasts a second before the man regains control of himself. John mentally punches the air and goes back to his newspaper in the hopes that Sherlock doesn’t realise he was staring. Brilliant. Ten points to Gryffindor. Everything is going smoothly.

 

888

 

John wonders how blind people dream. How Sherlock dreams. Can he imagine what his beloved streets of London look like? What does he look like to Sherlock? How can he possibly imagine…?

 

Sherlock doesn’t solve all of his cases. Simply because if there’s an important clue that only he would be able to recognise and no one sees it for him, he cannot conclude his theories for Lestrade. But he’s done well. According to the infamous detective, he’s solved 59 of his 63 cases. He should probably be in the Guinness world record book for most cases solved by a blind detective or something. Sherlock would probably sneer at the mere idea of it. Maybe he should just suggest it anyway, just to watch those artistically shaped lips curl. Oh boy, has he fallen hard or what? He’s _so_ screwed.

 

888

 

John knows how he dreams. He dreams of lieutenant Patterson bleeding out in the sand, the smell of gunfire in the air, explosions around him and John’s screaming orders, but there’s no one to obey because everyone’s _dead_ , and then he’s on his knees in Baker street, his hands trying to stop Sherlock from bleeding out onto their rug as he starts coughing up blood and suddenly everything is red and Sherlock’s blood is running down the wallpaper and they’re drowning in it and John can’t _breathe_ and…

 

John is in bed, Sherlock’s sleeping with his head on his chest, he runs his hands down Sherlock’s back and tangles his fingers in his curls until the man slowly stirs and then John flips them over, already giggling and preparing to ravish him, except Sherlock’s fighting him because he’s lost all his other senses and he doesn’t know who’s on top of him and he’s screaming so loudly and…

 

John always wakes up filled with self-hatred and tears running down his cheeks. Every time, he’s relieved to see Sherlock strut into the kitchen, oblivious to John’s haunting nightmares and fear of losing Sherlock. John detests those dreams. He almost wants to hate Sherlock for being the source of the fear.

 

888

The next time he touches Sherlock is when they’re at Angelo’s. There’s a candle on the table and John is enjoying mushroom ravioli, while Sherlock tries out Angelo’s new recipe involving spinach and something that looks like it’s been through the digestive tract of a sparrow. John is relieved that Sherlock cannot see what has been put in front of him. Sherlock talks about a case from a few years ago involving a goose and a serial killer granny. John is too relaxed to even laugh. He just smiles quietly, never taking his eyes off Sherlock, allowing himself to take in all of his features. He glances down at Sherlock’s left hand, which is curled into a loose fist on the table. Because it seems appropriate, he reaches out and gently takes Sherlock’s hand in his.

 

Time stops. Sherlock has stopped breathing and so has John. There’s nothing else except them. Sherlock swallows and turns his head slightly. “Angelo,” he calls, voice scratchy and startled, “bill please.”

 

John huffs out a laugh. He’s going to take Sherlock back to Baker street, drag him up the seventeen steps, haul him into his bed and have his way with him, scary dreams be damned. Sherlock wouldn’t lose any of his other senses, although if he could make him speechless, that would be a major…

 

Sherlock’s phone buzzes. It’s Lestrade. John hates _everything._

Sherlock forgets his dinner, John’s warm hands, including his silent promises and practically runs out the door. _John hates everything._

888

 

Sherlock has a stick that he never uses. John knows that he doesn’t want to be seen as handicapped or a liability. His job relies heavily on his public image and while Sherlock isn’t Matt Murdock, he certainly wants to appear professional. John has said little on the matter. It’s not his job to boss Sherlock around, he’ll leave that to Mycroft thank you very much. It’s a sore subject that he feels he has no right to step into. Besides, the sibling rivalry is hilarious, particularly the staring matches in which Sherlock performs admirably considering his disability; and John often sits there, looking into the gleeful face of the younger Holmes and the saddened one of Mycroft, because the elder Holmes struggles to look into the eyes of his blind brother. John has yet to find out why. Maybe it’s simply because Sherlock cannot see him.

 

The Yard have taken it upon themselves to nickname John as Sherlock’s ‘Guide dog’. Neither of them like this and Sherlock is always quick to jump to John’s defence (which he thinks is the most adorable thing in the world, as does Lestrade, who is the only Yarder who doesn’t poke fun). Donovan and Anderson are the worst and despite Sherlock’s cool façade, John knows that it upsets the self-proclaimed sociopath. He can tell that it makes him feel alone and vulnerable in a world that everyone else is privileged enough to see. Mycroft once told him that Sherlock had felt cursed by fate as a child. Hearing that had been like a punch to the gut. John deeply admires his friend and the thought of him having self-doubt thoughts is deeply troubling.

 

Arriving at the crime scene, John and Sherlock slip into their usual routine. As a police officer lifts the tape, John gently pulls Sherlock’s head low enough so he can duck under it. He then waits until Sherlock has taken off his left glove before they approach the body. Standing at his left, he takes Sherlock’s hand and shows him what he can see.

 

“Body is three feet in front of you,” he says, “Feet at nine o’clock, body twisted so that head is at two o’clock. Here,” he runs his fingers across Sherlock’s palm, “is the victim, knife about a foot away, here at eleven o’clock. Serrated blade, black handle, plastic, something you’d find in a hardware store.” He pauses to glance over at the police car. “Two witnesses, can’t see much from here. Where do you want to start?”

 

“The victim first.” Replies Sherlock without hesitation. “Witnesses second.”

 

John nods, mainly for himself. “Female, Caucasian, late thirties or early forties, blond, blue eyes, what most people would have considered attractive. However,” He places that isn’t in Sherlock’s palm onto his back and guides them both to a crouching level. “overweight, blotchy skin, was obviously letting herself go. No makeup, greying hair around the temples, short, doesn’t reach the shoulders. She’s wearing a black coat, her stripy blue scarf is from Marks and Spencer’s, high heels look like any ordinary footwear from the high street, also black. I can’t see the rest of her clothes, the coat is done up.” He grips Sherlock’s hand a little tighter. “Want me to start on the cause of death?”

 

“It has something to do with the knife, I presume?”

 

“Stabbed from the front, twice from what I can see. She was stabbed below her right breast first, here.” He brings their joined hands over the wound and holds them a few inches above the body. “Most likely nicked the lung. Second injury was fatal, right through the heart over here.” He moves their hands over the second stab wound. “From the amount of blood on her coat and the defensive wounds on her hands, I’d say she put up a fight between each stab, she definitely tried to fight him off, probably couldn’t run due to her injuries. If you want my opinion, I think she’s a sad lady who met a sad ending.” He sighs. “But that’s just my opinion, of course. Oh, we’d better get up, Greg’s here.”

 

They stand from their crouched position, John wincing as the movement hurt his leg, Sherlock noticing immediately. He reaches out again until he finds John’s arm and squeezes his hand in reassurance. John’s heart swells at the gesture and he almost forgets that he’s angry at Greg for ruining their evening.

 

“Watch out, everyone, Freak’s petting the guide dog!”

 

Sherlock stiffens like he’s been electrocuted and John’s angry all over again. He rounds on Donovan like an angry bull, but is stopped by Sherlock gripping his hand tighter.

 

And that’s when John finally gets it. He loves Sherlock. And maybe, just maybe, Sherlock feels something for him too. They’ve touched each other a lot since they’ve first met, simply because John had become, as Sherlock said, his eyes. But all these touches, which most people would consider to be sensual, had finally affected them.

 

He’d wanted to make Sherlock feel. Maybe he’d felt it all along. Without thinking, he spins back around to face Sherlock, grabs his head and pulls him down for a kiss. Sherlock makes a startled sound, but John doesn’t even feel remotely apologetic. He just sucks happily at Sherlock’s bottom lip, taking full advantage of his height and tries to make himself taller by standing on tip toe, so as not to hurt Sherlock’s back. He’s vaguely aware of Anderson making gagging sounds, of half a dozen officers muttering “It’s about time”, and of Lestrade roaring with laughter, which quickly turns to a noise of protest as John drags Sherlock away from the crime scene, back under the tape and out of the alley to find a taxi. They pay no heed to Lestrade’s calls. They’ll solve the case tomorrow.

 

888

 

They hold hands all the way back to Baker street and the cabbie’s driving is as bad as Hope’s. John always remembers their first case fondly, but right now all he can think about is Sherlock’s rapid breathing and the way his eyes are shining as they stare dead ahead of him. He’s beautiful in the light of the street lamps and John falls in love with him all over again. Sherlock turns his head towards him and his eyes rest on John’s chest. He cups Sherlock’s chin and raises his face until their eyes almost meet. He’s made Sherlock feel, but now he almost wishes he could make Sherlock see him. He recalls how Sherlock touched his face the first time they met, his fingers tracing the stubble on John’s cheeks and he realises that perhaps Sherlock has already seen him.

Perhaps a 3D image of him has already been filed away on a shelf in Sherlock’s memory palace.

 

As the can pulls up outside 221B Baker street, they leap out of the vehicle, John throwing the money in the cabbie’s direction as he follows Sherlock, not stopping to wait for the change. He wrestles the key into the lock and almost tears the door off its hinges as they shoot past a startled Mrs. Hudson, up the stairs into their living room. There they both freeze, as though what they’re about to do is finally dawning on them. John risks a glance at Sherlock and all his thoughts take a left turn and screech to a halt.

 

How the hell are they supposed to do this? Sherlock can’t _see,_ he’s never been with a man before, how’s any of this supposed to work? How would…?

 

“John,” says Sherlock, cutting off his panicked thoughts, as if he knows what John is thinking, “just because I cannot see you and just because I have no experience with _any_ of this does not mean that I need you to coddle me or treat me like I’m…” he stops, the word ‘disabled’ hanging in the air between them. John feels the need to reassure them both.

 

“I’m scared.” He whispers, and Sherlock seems to sag with relief. “I’m scared I’ll fuck this up.”

 

Sherlock smirks at John’s language, but doesn’t reprimand him. Instead he pulls off his gloves and coat and hangs them up on the rack. Then he turns back to John and holds out his hands, shy and vulnerable. John grasps them in his own. They’re slightly clammy to the touch.

 

“Your room or mine?” he asks. It’s important Sherlock knows he’s in control.

 

“Mine.” Replies Sherlock, letting out a nervous breath. “I-I can navigate better.”

 

John smiles. “I understand. We’ll take this one step at a time.” Hand in hand, they make their way to Sherlock’s bedroom. Once inside, John’s heart starts pounding and he feels as nervous as Sherlock appears. He’s beginning to wish he’s googled this beforehand. What would he have typed? ‘Gay sex with blind man’? That would make an interesting Wikipedia page. He’s create an account tomorrow. Right now however…

 

Sherlock swallows. “I don’t- I don’t have any lube or condoms.” He stammers and they both blush fiercely. It’s a sight to behold, watching Sherlock’s usually pale face turn red. John never thought he’d see the day. He grins like a maniac until trepidation grips him again. But never let be said that Captain John Watson never has a plan.

 

He leads Sherlock to the foot of the bed and cups his face with both hands. Sherlock’s eyes are on the floor. John wishes Sherlock could see him. He wishes he could give him the ability to see him.

 

That’s when the light bulb flicks on.

 

He shuffles closer until they’re pressed chest to chest. Sherlock’s breathing is now erratic and John would be concerned if he didn’t think he was about to die prematurely from a heart attack. That would be most embarrassing.

 

Running his hands down Sherlock’s neck, then his chest, enjoying the silken texture of Sherlock’s favourite purple shirt. Leaning in and smelling his cucumber shampoo, ash, sweat and something so uniquely Sherlock that he’s addicted instantly. He swipes out his tongue and licks a path along Sherlock’s neck before sucking on his Adam’s apple. Sherlock’s breath is hot on his forehead and John loves that he can so easily pull apart the smartest man in London. That he’s the only one who can do this. Sherlock grasps his elbows to steady himself.

They’re both so warm.

 

John nudges Sherlock backwards until the back of his knees hit the mattress and he collapses onto it, dragging John down with him. They’re both lost for breath and then they’re giggling like they do ever so inappropriately at crime scenes. Sherlock’s face is flushed, his lips are damp and stained red and John feels unmanly tears threatening to spill. He gulps and locks lips with Sherlock.

 

Is he on fire? They’re both so hot, something must be on fire.

 

John struggles with Sherlock’s buttons and the man beneath him just keeps giggling until he swats him to be quiet. Eventually he manages to undo his shirt and he straddles Sherlock’s hips and pulls him into a sitting position so he can tug it off. Sherlock is now topless and oh _god,_ he is gorgeous.

 

He begins to map out Sherlock’s chest with his mouth while the man runs his hands through John’s hair and sighs happily, squirming when John reaches his nipples. John loves his chest hair, so fine and smooth to the touch. Everything feels amazing. He can only hope it’s the same for Sherlock, although judging from the noises he’s making, he must be doing a pretty good job.

 

John ventures lower down to Sherlock’s belly button, where he dips his tongue in, making Sherlock grip his head tighter. He chuckles, causing Sherlock to wriggle and bite his lip.

 

“Ticklish, are we?” Asks John, cheekily.

 

“Shut up. I want to see you.”

 

He grabs John by the armpits and with surprising strength, he hauls him back up so they’re face to face and tries to pull John’s jumper over his head. He tosses it to the floor and goes for his shirt which he simply rips open, buttons flying everywhere.

 

“Oi! I liked that shirt. Harry got it for me.”

 

“It’s ugly. It has to go.”

 

“How can you possibly know that?”

 

“I’m a genius, John.”

 

A pause.

 

“Mrs. Hudson may have told me to destroy it.”

 

John snorts. “Should I start keeping an eye on my wardrobe?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

They laugh all over again.

 

Once John is topless, they press their chests together, gasping at the contact, enjoying the warmth, the way the line of hair running into Sherlock’s trousers feels against John’s stomach and how they can feel each other’s hearts pounding in their ribcages. John has never been so turned on by such simple skin contact.

 

Their trousers follow quickly and John sits up to rip away Sherlock’s underwear (Payback’s a bitch). He lays there in his naked glory, a small mole inside his left thigh, his cock long and elegantly curved. Without thinking, he bends down and licks a long path up it.

 

Sherlock yelps and lets out a string of words in French that John doesn’t understand. He looks up. Sherlock’s eyes are darting all over the place, bright and alive, his tongue between his teeth, hair damp from sweat and hands fisting the bed sheets. John loves him.

 

“I want to see you.” Repeats Sherlock, whimpering. “I want to see you.”

 

A pang of emotion shreds John’s heart. “I know Sherlock. I wish…”

 

Sherlock huffs impatiently. “Don’t be stupid, John. I’m going to _see_ you.” He feels his way down John’s torso, slips his fingers the waistband of his pants and shucks them off in one fluid movement. John doesn’t have time to think as Sherlock expertly flips them over and slides down so he can wrap his hand around John’s arousal. John arches off the bed and begs Sherlock to get a move on.

 

“Of course. But I want to know everything about you when you’re in the throes of passion.” Says Sherlock in all seriousness. “I’m going to catalogue all your reactions. Think of it as an experiment.”

 

John wonders how Sherlock can possibly be thinking about experiments at a time like this, but then he decides that, hey this is Sherlock, he’ll just have to learn to live with the quirks in and out of the bedroom.

 

He’s becoming very British about all of this. Mycroft will be proud.

 

Oh god, _Mycroft._

“No thinking about my brother when I’m about to perform a fellatio on you, thank you very much.” Says Sherlock, reading his mind as is standard with him. “It just puts us both off.”

 

John is too far gone to form a vocal response to that.

 

“And besides, my brother seems to think we’ve been at it for months. If he wanted to give you the Big Brother Talk, he would have done so by now.”

 

That didn’t reassure John in the slightest. But all thoughts fly out the window as Sherlock’s mouth closes around him. Stars are the only thing he can see, yet he’s aware of Sherlock’s hand on his face, reading his reactions and most likely shelving them away for a later viewing.

 

Sherlock can now see every flicker of John’s eyelids, the way his lips part as he pants loudly, the only sounds in the room are John’s breathing and the sucking sounds Sherlock is making as he brings him closer and closer to the edge. The smell of sex is heavy and strong in the air.

 

Sherlock senses how John twists the bed covers, how his chest heaves, how he babbles nonsense and cries Sherlock’s name and tells him how wonderful and beautiful he is and he’s going to repay him for this and show him the stars that are currently exploding in front of his eyes…

 

It takes all of his energy to lift his head so he can reach out and grab Sherlock’s erection, which is now hard and leaking pre-cum. Sherlock stutters his name and crawls back up John’s body, leaving him on the brink of what will be a mind-blowing orgasm. But John almost doesn’t care, because Sherlock is smiling.

 

Together they lay side by side, until Sherlock timidly wraps his hand around their penises. John’s hand joins his and together, they finish off what they started. They come at the same time, John with his eyes wide open, watching Sherlock as Sherlock observes John’s features with the pads of his fingers.

 

It takes John ten minutes to catch his breath, inhaling at a marathon like pace, feeling Sherlock’s heart thump beneath his palm.

 

“I love you.” He says before he can stop himself. “I _love you_ so much.”

 

Sherlock picks up his hand and links their fingers, his eyes set on the ceiling. “I saw you,” he replies, “and the stars.” He rolls towards John and buries his face in his neck.

 

John cries. Now his worst fear has come true: he’s finally shot his masculinity in the foot.

 

Then he grins; he wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have next to no knowlegde about blindness or anything related, so any insight would be welcome. Please rate and review, I would love to hear your thoughts!


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